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Strange Images of Death (Joe Sandilands Murder Mysteries) - Hardcover

Buch 8 von 13: Joe Sandilands

Cleverly, Barbara

 
9781569476321: Strange Images of Death (Joe Sandilands Murder Mysteries)
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1569476322 ISBN 13: 9781569476321
Verlag: Soho Constable, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

Provence, 1926. Scotland Yard detective Joe Sandilands is on leave, driving his way south to the Riviera while dropping off his niece at an ancient chateau.

A troubling crime committed just before their arrival leaves a clear message that more violence is to come. To allay panic, Joe agrees to stay on and root out the guilty person. But, despite Joe’s vigilance, a child goes missing and an artist’s beautiful young model is murdered in circumstances eerily recreating a six hundred-year-old crime of passion.

Helped and hindered by a rising star of the French Police Judiciaire, Joe must delve into a horror story from the castle’s past before he can tear the mask from the diseased soul responsible for these contemporary crimes.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Barbara Cleverly was born in the north of England and is a graduate of Durham University. A former teacher, she has spent her working life in Cambridgeshire and Suffolk; she now lives in Cambridge. She has one son and five step-children. She is the author of seven books in the Joe Sandilands series, including The Last Kashmiri Rose, Folly du Jour and Strange Images of Death. Her Joe Sandilands series, set against the background of the Indian Empire, was inspired by the contents of a battered old tin trunk that she found in her attic.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Prologue
Provence, South of France, 1926

He studied her sleeping face for the last time.

She was lying peacefully on her back, her fair hair
spreading in ripples over the pillow. Warm-gold by day,
the waves now gleamed pale silver, all colour bleached
away by the moonlight. Her features also were drained
and only the lips still showed a trace of emotion. They
were slightly open and uptilted, perhaps in a suggestion of
remembered and recent passion. He smothered the distasteful
notion.

Such beauty!

He felt his resolve waver and was alarmed to acknowledge
a moment of indecision. He reminded himself that
this beauty was his – his to spare or to destroy – and a rush
of exaltation swept away the slight uncertainty. It had
been a wobble, no more than a weakness imposed on him
by convention. Convention? Even at this moment of
approaching ecstasy he paused to consider the word. From
the Latin, of course. ‘A coming together’. In agreement and
common consent. Well, convention would never direct him.
It was his nature to step away from the crowd, to walk in
the opposite direction, to think his own rebellious thoughts
and to translate those thoughts into action. He would be
true to his nature. He would assert his birthright.

He leaned closer until his face was only inches above the
still form. He had a fancy that, if he pressed his lips to hers,
he might catch her dying breath. The thought revolted and
fascinated him in equal measure and he lifted his head. He
took a deliberate step backwards. He would not touch her.
No part of his body would make contact with hers. To test
his resolve he contemplated trailing a lascivious finger
along her smooth throat as others had, of allowing that finger
to ease over the left collar bone until it encountered the
imperfection of a tiny mole half-hidden by a fold of her
white gown. His hand remained safely in his pocket. He
would look. Admire. Hate.

He stood for a moment, a shadow among shadows. The
garment he’d put on had been carefully chosen: an oldfashioned
hunting coat (English tailoring, he did believe),
it had been abandoned on a hook by the door in the cloakroom
by some visiting milord, years, possibly decades,
ago. The thick grey tweed was a perfect camouflage – it
even had a hood – and, essential for his purpose, not one
but two concealed poacher’s pockets. His fine nose was
revolted by the smell of decay that lurked in the tweedy
depths, still stained with the blood of long-dead creatures,
but they accommodated the very special equipment he had
needed to carry, covertly, along the corridors.

He played with the notion of taking out the heavy-duty
military torch and lighting up her last moments, but an
innate caution made him dismiss the idea. The moonlight
was all the illumination he could wish for. A resplendent
August moon shone through the uncurtained windows,
coating the alabaster-fair features with an undeserved
glaze of sanctity.

The Moon. Generous but demanding deity! He adored
her. She was his friend, his accomplice. He welcomed the
white peace and forgiveness she brought at the end of each
day’s red turmoil and sin. Like some sprite from a northern
folk tale, he came to life in the dark hours. His eyes
grew wide, his thoughts became as clear and cold as the
moon herself. His senses were sharpened.

He listened. He turned abruptly as a distant owl
screeched and claimed its prey. A farm dog across the valley
responded with a half-hearted warning howl and then
fell silent, duty done. But from within the walls there was
no sound. His stretched senses detected nothing though he
could imagine the drunken snores, the unconscious mutterings,
the hands groping blindly for a pitcher of cool
water as his fellows slept, divided from him by several
thick walls and a courtyard. He would be undisturbed.

The weight in his right pocket banged against his thigh
and prompted his next move. He took out the heavy claw
hammer and ran a hand over the blunt metal head; with
the pads of his fingers he tested the sharpness of the upcurving,
V-shaped nail-wrench that balanced it at the rear.
He required the tool to perform well in both its capacities.
It would smash with concentrated force and, with a twist
of his hand, would lever and rip. It would be equal to the
task. But there would be noise. He took a velvet scarf from
his neck and wound it securely around the hammer head
to muffle the blows.

He was being overcautious. No one would respond,
even if the sounds cut through their wine-fuelled stupor. A
strange light might possibly have excited curiosity and
investigation by some inquisitive servant. No, he didn’t
discount a dutiful response from one of these domestics if
he were careless enough to draw attention. The live-in staff
were well chosen, adequately paid and highly trained. So,
no wandering lights. But a few distant creaks and bangs in
a crumbling old building went, like the dog’s howl,
unheeded by everyone.

He’d savoured the moment for too long. Enough of musing.
Enough of gloating over her loveliness. Time to move
on. Time to clear this filth from his path to make way for
a worthier offering.

He took out the fencing mask he’d thought to bring with
him and put it over his face. He wanted no tell-tale
scratches raising eyebrows at the breakfast table. He pulled
up the hood of the hunting coat to cover his hair. There
would be no traces of this night’s activity left clinging to
his person, attracting the attention of that sharp-eyed girl
who cleaned out his room.

He was ready.

As a last flourish, he muttered cynically an abbreviated
prayer for a lost soul in Latin: ‘Quaesumus, Domine, miserere
famulae tuae, Alienorae, et a contagiis mortalitatis exutam, in
aeternam salvationis partem restitue. Have mercy on the soul
of your maidservant, Aliénore, and free her from the defilement
of her mortal flesh . . .’

As he murmured, his supple fingers ran with satisfaction
along the smooth wooden handle of the ancient hammer.
He’d used it often and knew its strength. The muscles of
his arms were accommodated to its use as those of a tennis
player to his racquet, and they responded now with
familiar ease as he swung the weight upwards over his
head and brought it crashing down into the centre of the
delicate face.
 

Chapter One
France, August 1926

‘To wake or not to wake the pest?’ was Joe’s silent question.

Would she really welcome an elbow in the ribs only half
an hour after sinking so ostentatiously into sleep? He
glanced again at the suspiciously still form in the passenger
seat next to him and the half of the face that was
visible. The pure profile and slight smile were deceptively
angelic, and he decided to leave her to her daydreams. But
a road sign had just announced that they were a mere five
kilometres north of the town of Valence. Here they were,
booming on south at a speed the Morris Oxford cabriolet
could never have reached, let alone sustained, on English
roads. Joe Sandilands was no car-worshipper, but he could
almost have persuaded himself that it (he refused to call
this ingenious arrangement of metal ‘she’) was enjoying
swallowing up the huge French distances.

The day was hot; the hood was down. Avenues of...

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Verlag
Soho Constable
Erscheinungsdatum
2010
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1569476322
ISBN 13 
9781569476321
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
314
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